


The Milkman of Human Kindness

by flippyspoon



Series: Sometimes When it Snows [4]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippyspoon/pseuds/flippyspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is good at chess, not so good at people.  Jimmy is good with gambling and this newfangled thing called empathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Milkman of Human Kindness

"You're rubbish," Mr. Barrow said in a low voice, and sounding not a little surprised.

Jimmy glanced at him over the chessboard. "I said I could play, I didn't say I was any good."

"You have no strategy at all," Mr. Barrow said. "Are you even attempting a defense?"

"Ah…" Jimmy tapped his fingers on the table. "Defense?" He'd moved the pieces as they were meant to be moved, fending off Mr. Barrow's attacks as well as he could. He'd managed to take out a couple of pawns. That had to count for something.

Although this was the third game following four catastrophic losses on his end over the course of the week. It was late afternoon and a slow day at Downton for Jimmy. Though Mr. Barrow had been hopping, Jimmy had only to change the dining linens after luncheon. But he had been able to fetch Mr. Barrow for a game and some tea.

"Billiards is my game," Jimmy finally said. "And poker."

Mr. Barrow looked almost troubled.

_Blimey_ , Jimmy thought. _It's only a game. And you're winning besides._

He had not been friendly with Mr. Barrow for long, but Jimmy already found him difficult to suss out sometimes. Things had almost seemed a little simpler before, when he been only the troublesome man whose presence Jimmy was forced to withstand.

Mr. Barrow muttered, "You seem like one of those sorts who's good at everything."

"I am. And I'm good at playing chess badly," Jimmy said. He rested his chin on his arms. Mr. Barrow was taking ages to make a move. "If I'm so awful, why's it takin' you so long to play?"

"Oh, I've got three ways to a check mate," Mr. Barrow said, frowning at the board. "I'm tryin' to figure how to do it in more than three moves. Unless you bungle even that."

Jimmy sat up with a start. "Mr. Barrow... Are you letting me win?" He said with some disgust.

"Uh, no," Mr. Barrow said, all too amused. "I'm just beating you more slowly. It's the only way I can make it interesting. I don't think it's possible to let you win. You're the worst I've ever seen."

"Oh, thanks." It was a hit to his pride. Not that he'd ever cared about his chess skills before. But he didn't like the thought of being pandered to. "Just play how you would normally play." Jimmy sat up straight and rubbed his hands together. "I'll concentrate harder."

"Play how I would normally play," Mr. Barrow repeated.

"Please."

Mr. Barrow scratched his chin and swiftly made a play with a knight. Jimmy nodded, studying the board, and said, "Alright, so... No... No... Mmmm... Oh! Oh. No." He frowned at Mr. Barrow.

"Check. Mate." Thomas said.

Jimmy cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"I could teach you a thing or two if-"

"Ugh. I'd sooner polish silver," Jimmy said, sitting back in his chair.

Mr. Barrow looked down, his mouth a tight line. "Well, we can still play. But I don't see the point."

Mr. Barrow was put out. Jimmy couldn't think why. Because he didn't feel like learning proper chess? Because he was bad at it? He could be so moody. Jimmy had always thought this. But when he had been treating Mr. Barrow badly, be had assumed he was the cause. It had given him a cruel lift sometimes to see the man thrown into a dark attitude when he had said something biting before they became friends.

_But you can't just become friends with someone instantly_ , Jimmy thought. _It's not a transaction._

A beating in trade for a friendship. Sometimes it seemed like a transaction to Jimmy.

Occasionally, Mr. Barrow would glance at him in a particular way that made him feel awkward and on edge all over again. Thomas had been so pleased by Jimmy being snide about Mr. Bates the week before. He had looked at Jimmy knowingly after that, as if they had some understanding between them. Jimmy had felt immediately that they did, at least in terms of their thoughts about the others. But he fought the notion in his own head.

_No, we're nothing alike_ , he wanted to say sometimes. _When I said we could be friends, I just meant we didn't have to be enemies._

But he caught himself and didn't say it. Thomas wasn't so bad most of the time. Besides, he was barely healed from his injuries.

If forced, Jimmy would also have to admit that Mr. Barrow was much better company than Alfred. And outside of Alfred there were few options for decent company other than the hall boys who mooned over Jimmy like he was their older brother who would teach them card tricks. He had no interest in that.

"I'm goin' to have a cigarette," Mr. Barrow said, and stood from the table.

It was nearly November, and chilly as of late. Mr. Barrow didn't even have his coat. "You always smoke in here," Jimmy said.

"I want some air."

The way he said it made Jimmy think he was not invited.

"You could teach me some chess, I suppose," he said quickly, trying to save the moment. He had blundered, clearly. He just didn't know how.

"Don't do me any favors, Jimmy," Mr. Barrow muttered, as he made his way outside.

Jimmy was affronted and he glared at the chessboard, alone in the servants' hall.

_Now what in God's name was that about_?

 

Thomas felt pitied. He couldn't say exactly why, but the chess had something to do with it. He hated being pitied. He could remember early in his days at Downton, the way Mrs. Hughes would sometimes look at him; as if, even if she didn't know why, she could sense his loneliness. But Mrs. Hughes was stern enough not to make it obvious. Others had occasionally gotten that look in their eyes like they were telling him he _should_ feel awful about himself even if he didn't, because wasn't there something quite wrong? Wasn't he so lonely and apart from people? It had only made him more enraged and determined to think highly of himself if no one else would. Better to be hated than pitied.

Now it was the way Jimmy had kept on insisting they play chess when he was obviously so rubbish at it and didn't seem to enjoy it. Thomas had been overjoyed after the fair, to hear Jimmy agree to be friends, that it hadn't occurred to him that a friendship begrudgingly given wasn't necessarily _real_. Jimmy likely felt beholden. And perhaps he did pity Thomas. What could inspire pity more than a man so lonely he'd put himself in mortal danger with no hope of his love ever being requited? Of course, Jimmy pitied him. How had he not seen this before? It turned Thomas's stomach. Apparently, he did have a limit to how far he would go just to get a bit closer.

Thomas heard the backdoor slam. Jimmy trotted down the stairs into the yard. He stopped a short distance from Thomas, clearly hesitant and squinted, pointing back at the house.

"Mr. Carson says you're wanted..." Jimmy said.

"Right." Thomas stubbed out his cigarette before making his way back in.

"Wait, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy said.

Thomas turned back, eyebrows raised in an expression of coldly civil curiosity.

"Did I say somethin' wrong? Only I... Well, did I?" Jimmy looked baffled.

"Not a thing," Thomas said, straightening his livery. "Listen, I've healed. Wounds are mended. You're...released. From your debt."

"Debt?" Jimmy's mouth screwed up and he curled his lip. He really did have an endless number of expressions, Thomas thought. There was something almost comically malleable about his pretty face.

"You don't owe me anything, James," Thomas said. "I've likely been occupying your time unduly. If you'll excuse me..."

"But I don't even understand what-"

Thomas didn't hear the end of his sentence. He was already inside, having let the door shut on Jimmy's protests. In Thomas's heart, the lights dimmed to darkness. It had been a fool's errand in the end.

Carson wanted him to take a look at the phonograph in the saloon because it was behaving oddly. Thomas, as the resident expert on clocks, was sometimes thought to be the resident expert on anything else mechanical. This was in no way true, but he went along with that charade because it made him more valuable. Happily, more than half the time he would find that whoever had looked at the malfunctioning device had barely given it more than a second of consideration. He was often able to fix things, not by means of any expertise, but merely by being patient and thinking things through. It made him a good chess player too.

Even he had to admit that this mindset rarely if ever applied to human beings. He had little patience for people who failed to act as he wanted and little ability to decipher their true motivations.

Thomas set a record spinning on the phonograph and quickly turned it off when only a horrible tinny squelch blared, echoing in the room. He spent a half hour inspecting the works of the phonograph for damage or dust, blowing softly on the gears. Most likely, the problem was the needle. But it was hard to tell just by looking at it. Everything seemed in order, so Thomas started up another record and sure enough the squelch was still there. He sat staring at the needle as the record played. Yes, it did seem slightly off. He'd have to remove it and look at it under a magnifying glass at least. If it was the needle, he'd have to order a new one from a catalogue and that would be a few weeks coming. It was a distraction from the wretched disappointment in attempting to be friends with Jimmy anyhow.

"I'm not certain I agree with your diagnosis," Mr. Carson said later.

"Then get a phonograph man in here, if you want a second opinion," Thomas said.

"Are there phonograph men?"

"If there are phonographs, then there ought to be phonograph men."

"Hmm. Not very helpful, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas glared and Carson just waved him away. The man was insufferable sometimes. It was hard enough working beneath someone who had called you "foul" and "twisted by nature" and your lifestyle "revolting." The worst part was that never before had Thomas felt anyone's pity so keenly. Carson was not only disgusted, but he felt _bad_ for him. Thomas was reminded of this everyday.

He was about to leave when Carson said, "Did I see you playing chess earlier?"

"Yes," Thomas said warily.

"I wouldn't mind a game myself, if you're up for it," Carson said. He sounded downright cheerful.

"You...want to play chess," Thomas said. "With me. I've never seen you play chess, Mr. Carson."

"Oh, I haven't for years," Carson admitted. "But I was quite good in my youth. I thought I might fancy a game, unless you fear the competition."

"Have you been at one of his Lordship's snuffboxes?" Thomas cracked.

"Thomas..." Carson said darkly.

"Right, right, whatever you say," Thomas said. "We'll play after dinner then."

"Looking forward to it!" Carson said. He rubbed his hands together.

Thomas just shook his head and made his way out.

 

_That bloody fickle loony_ , Jimmy thought.

He had been rejected. Which didn't happen often. The few times it had, Jimmy really hadn't cared. Most people didn't seem worth getting too upset over. Jimmy tried this time not to be upset. He inwardly shrugged it off, sitting at the hall table and shuffling his deck of cards.

"Not as if it matters to me," Jimmy muttered. "He's the one who wanted to be friends. Didn't ask him to go get bloodied up for my sake."

But the moment of Mr. Barrow's abrupt dismissal would not leave him alone.

_What did I do_? Jimmy thought. _Is he so bloody in love with me, he just can't stand it?_

The thought made him squirm. No, that hadn't been it. Mr. Barrow had been angry. Why? He cut his cards over on and over in his hands.

_He spends a year pining for me_ , Jimmy thought. _Then when he finally starts actually getting to know me_...

There it was. Mr. Barrow had been totally infatuated with him. Which was disturbing, of course. But then he had gotten to truly _know_ Jimmy...and completely lost interest.

"Oh."

"Hello, James," Bates said, and sat down at the table. Jimmy hadn't seen him come in. Bates had a pair of Lord Grantham's shoes and went about polishing. "You looked troubled. Mr. Barrow got you hopping?"

Jimmy, always wary of Bates, chose not to take the comment the wrong way and shrugged. He didn't want to talk to Bates about anything, yet he couldn't help but mumble, "He's a funny one, isn't he?"

Bates chuckled. "He is a lot of things. Funny isn't the problem. But you two seem to be getting on lately."

"I thought so," Jimmy said. "Apparently not. He's bein' a complete bastard for no reason."

"Yes, well he's good at that."

Jimmy didn't like that he and Bates were of the same mind and he shrugged. "Anyway..."

"It's too bad really," Bates mused. "Even Mr. Barrow could use a friend. He isn't easy making them. Much less keeping them."

Jimmy felt he was being sucked into a conversation he had not willingly entered, but he said, "Meaning?"

"Oh, well after everything that happened with O'Brien," Bates said, looking at the shoes as he polished them.

"O'Brien? What's she to do with anything?"

Bates glanced up in surprise. "You don't know? After all this time?"

Jimmy sighed dramatically. "Know _what_?"

"O'Brien and Thomas were the best of friends," Bates said. "Or as close to it as two people like them can get. For years and years. Always scheming and plotting. Against me, most of the time."

"Yes, yes," Jimmy muttered.

"After the war, they had a falling out. I got the feeling it had something to do with Alfred. Then you came here. That's when she started pulling both your strings. Regular puppet master, she was. Telling you to let Mr. Barrow make advances, telling Thomas you were interested..."

"Wha...?" Jimmy's throat went dry. "W-what?"

Bates eyed him, seemingly apologetic to be breaking this news. "She played you two like an orchestra. By all accounts, she was the only real friend he ever had around here. And she betrayed him in a horrible fashion, making him think he had a chance with you."

Jimmy dropped his cards and sat back in his chair, winded. "Why didn't he ever tell me that? A long time ago! I would've listened. I _think_ I would have. She really... God..."

"He must be awfully embarrassed," Bates said, frowning at the toe of Grantham's shoe. " You can see why he might be wary. He was already the sort to expect the worst of people before that."

"Yeah," Jimmy said. "Uh, yeah. I suppose." He stood, suddenly wanting to stretch his legs. He didn't need to hear anymore about that witch, now perspiring in India. He didn't want to think how the whole fiasco might be making Mr. Barrow act oddly now. It was all too much.

"Bloody isn't worth it anyway," he said to himself, wandering down the hall.

But he kept imagining Mr. Barrow's face on that horrible night; the way he had gaped at Jimmy, utterly lost. He had thought it was because Mr. Barrow was merely misreading him, or thinking he had some kind of claim just because he was senior over Jimmy. But O'Brien had said things to Thomas. Who knows _what_ she had said?

"Ugh, ugh! _God_." Jimmy held his head in his hands, standing there in the hall. Oddly, the terrible feeling that made him want to hide under a rock somewhere wasn't because he was embarrassed for himself, though it was beyond mortifying to think of how O'Brien had manipulated him. But he could now imagine what it must've been like for Mr. Barrow.

It all made sense to him now. Though there was always still the chance that Mr. Barrow simply didn't like him after all. But he had a strong urge, as he'd had after the fair, to attempt to put things right, or at least to speak his mind.

"Bloody O'Brien," he muttered. "Hope you get food poisoning off in bloody India."

He remembered something funny Mr. Barrow had said to cheer him a few weeks ago about O'Brien writing Alfred letters:

_It's hot. More curry._

It made him chuckle again and he thought, _Maybe it's worth something._

With a bit of time still before the family dinner, Thomas was looking at the needle under a magnifying glass in the cleaning supply closet and taking longer than he needed, relaxing on a high stool. Though he was mostly healed from the beating at the fair, the bruised ribs had taken the longest to mend. Sometimes they still ached on a hard day, and especially in the cold weather. He didn't look forward to winter when his hand would turn sore at the first snow like clockwork. The phonograph needle was worn at its end. He was right, he was certain of it. You had to give such problems some time and attention, he thought. Otherwise the music would never play right.

"Mr. Barrow?" He heard Jimmy in the doorway and sorrow spilled over inside him.

_I should've known better than to try._

"Yes?" Thomas said.

"Can I just talk to you for a second?" Jimmy said.

"As you like." Thomas didn't look up. He moved a lantern closer for more light and pretended he needed to continue examining the needle. Thomas heard the door close behind him.

Jimmy took a breath and said, "Listen. Listen, I do owe you somethin'. No matter what you say."

Thomas grimaced, but he didn't think Jimmy could see him. "I told you, you don't. You're very kind. I was wrong to demand anything of you-"

"No, I wasn't _done_. Just listen, would you?" Jimmy said.

He sounded so upset. But then Jimmy was like that. His temperament could turn on a dime. Thomas sat up and spun on his stool to face Jimmy, eyebrows raised in expectation, waiting for him to go on.

"I do owe you something," Jimmy continued. "But not...not chess. Or just chatting like anyone would. Or anything like that. You did me a good turn. No one's ever done anything like that for me before. I won't forget it, is what I'm trying to say. I'll do you a good turn someday. That's what I owe you. So, I... " He became aggravated again, carding a hand through his hair, disheveling that careful curl of his. "So I don't know why you're so put out. If you just don't like me after all this, then it's no skin off me nose. But I don't see why that's my fault. Because..because you're not so bad to be around, honestly. I mean, you're about the only person I can speak freely to without bein' takin' to task. Even Alfred bites my head off if I say a bloody word against Mr. Carson. And I happen to like playin' bad chess if it's all the same to you. So...that's what I wanted to say."

Thomas sat, his cheeks warmed. The speech was so lovely and so outside of his experience that he hardly knew how to respond except to say, "I don't dislike you." Although he did dislike the way his voice cracked when he said it. "I...thought you pitied me. I don't take kindly to pity."

Jimmy started in surprise and he looked amused. "Pity you? Why should I? You must make twice as much as I do and everyone likes you better. Pity me, Mr. Barrow. I'm downtrodden."

Thomas smiled in that way that only Jimmy seemed to be able to make him smile and he glanced away at the lantern on the counter. "Ah, yes. Jimmy _contra mundi_. Or _mundum_ rather."

"Did I say that?" Jimmy said, and chuckled.

If Jimmy didn't remember when he'd said it, Thomas certainly wasn't going to remind him and he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I apologize. I was out of sorts is all."

"This place'll do that to you," Jimmy said, smiling easily, and all out once the thing was done and it was as if Thomas had never almost destroyed the friendship he'd so longed for. Jimmy ambled up to the counter and nodded at the needle in Thomas's hand. "What've you got there?"

"Ah." Jimmy was standing near, and Thomas felt like something important had happened. It felt, to him, like those moments when they had spoken before the kiss. Except this bit of understanding between them was true and not sculpted by his imaginings. "Phonograph needle. Bit dull. It's been making the music play all wrong."

"Oh." Jimmy gestured at the needle and Thomas handed at to him. He squinted at it, screwing his face up, and picked up the magnifying glass to take a look near the lantern. "Blimey. I can hardly tell its dull even under the glass. You fix clocks and phonographs too? Jack of all trades then?"

"Huh. Mr. Carson thinks so anyhow," Thomas said.

"You'd have liked my father," Jimmy said, and he handed him back the needle carefully. "He was good with machines and devices and things too. I haven't got much talent for it." He wiggled his fingers in front of Thomas's face. "My hands are too thick for one." Thomas's mind went to a place he'd rather it wouldn't. "Yours are long and thin though. Good for that kind of work. So do you want to play chess later then? Or have ya given up on me?"

Jimmy was smirking, and he leaned back against the counter next to Thomas.

_He actually likes spending time with me_ , Thomas thought, with some amount of wonder. _He said so. And he was genuine about it._

"I haven't," Thomas said. "But you'll need to wait your turn, I'm afraid. I'm playin' Mr. Carson after dinner."

Jimmy's eyes went wide. "You're playing chess with Mr. Carson?"

"It was his idea," Thomas said.

"Are you goin' to let him lose slowly too?" Jimmy said.

"Oh no, I'm going to churn him into mush as quickly as possible," Thomas said. He was certain he would. He suspected Carson would underestimate him.

Jimmy's smirk turned into a wide grin and he said, "I'm goin' to need to see this and no mistake. Might steal an extra pudding off Patmore for this occasion. Crikey, what time is it anyway?"

Thomas checked his pocket watch and told him, "Time for you to get to the kitchen before Patmore grinds you up into the sauce."

"Oh Lord," Jimmy mumbled. He was about to leave when Thomas said, "Jimmy, honestly though, you don't owe me anything. It's kind, but it's not..."

What he meant to say was that coming to Jimmy's rescue had been one of the few things he'd ever done without expecting a reward. It had been only out of love for Jimmy. To be repaid for it seemed wrong somehow.

"I do though," Jimmy argued, on his way out the door. "I will do you a good turn, Mr. Barrow. And you'll never see it comin' neither."

Jimmy felt much better. Unaccountably better for someone who usually didn't care what other people might be feeling. He did wonder if Mr. Barrow knew about O'Brien's manipulations. It would come up eventually, he supposed, although he wasn't looking forward to that conversation. He was only glad to have his new friend back. In the kitchen, dinner wasn't quite ready yet and he stood waiting next to Alfred.

"I'll bet I know somethin' you don't," Jimmy said casually.

"Whassat?" Alfred said, his eyes on Ivy's bum.

"Mr. Barrow's playin' Mr. Carson at chess after dinner," Jimmy said, as if he had just announced a truce between warring countries.

"Really!" Alfred's wispy eyebrows went up in surprise. "I've never seen Mr. Carson play any games. Except for cricket."

"Mr. Barrow says he's goin' to crush him," Jimmy said.

"He will not," Alfred said. "I'm sure Mr. Carson's better at chess than Mr. Barrow."

"Oh?" Jimmy said. "How do ya know that?"

"He's...older," Alfred said, shrugging. "He just seems like he would be."

Jimmy had no idea who was better at chess, but he couldn't stop himself saying, "Care to make a wager?"

Alfred sighed as if he'd stepped into a cow pie on the ground. "Ugh... Yeah, alright," he said, clearly reluctant. "I'll bet you...a bob."

Jimmy only snorted in response.

"Fine," Alfred said. "Half a crown."

"A _quid_ ," Jimmy said. "We're not in school."

"A quid!"

"We're men," Jimmy said sternly. "Men bet a quid. And that's bein' charitable."

Alfred growled and said, "Alright, alright. Carson'll beat him though."

They shook hands to seal the agreement.

"Mr. Carson'll beat who at what?" Mrs. Patmore said, rubbing her hands on her apron. She motioned them over as dinner was finally ready to be taken up.

"Mr. Barrow's playin' chess with Mr. Carson," Alfred said. "I've got a quid on Mr. Carson to win."

Patmore handed Jimmy a silver platter of lamb chops and she pursed her lips, eyeing him shrewdly. Finally she said, "Alright. I'll put a quid on Mr. Barrow."

"Ha! Fantastic!" Jimmy said, and he grinned all the way into the dining room.

By the time, Mr. Barrow and Mr. Carson sat down for chess, there was hardly anyone in the house who didn't have money on the game. Jimmy had to write everything down, and after dinner he found himself racing around the downstairs, writing down the wagers on the back of an envelope. He borrowed a pot with a lid from Mrs. Patmore, and went around collecting the bets. She was suspicious though, and insisted the bets be kept in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room and away from wandering hands.

Daisy had been a tough nut to crack.

"I suppose I could put a shilling on Mr. Barrow," she said. That had taken nearly ten minutes of convincing after she barked at Ivy for betting half a crown on Mr. Carson.

"Alright," Jimmy grumbled. "But you only get two shillings if you win."

Anna and Bates were interesting. Anna put in a crown on Mr. Barrow to Bates' astonishment and they bantered about it for a few minutes, during which Anna fluttered her eyelashes. Bates seemed utterly charmed by it. Jimmy had never completely understood why a girl's eyelashes were supposed to be so meaningful. Ivy was always fluttering her eyelashes at him. Sometimes he was sure she had a nervous tick.

"A quid on Mr. Carson," Bates finally said. Anna just shook her head.

"You're goin' to lose your money to me," Anna said happily, nudging his arm. "And I'm goin' to buy a new hat."

"You're goin' to lose your money to _me_ ," Bates insisted. "And _I'm_ going to buy you a new hat."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. _And I'm goin' to buy a bucket to be sick in because you're makin' me lose me lunch_ , he thought.

After much deliberation, Mrs. Hughes, in a businesslike tone, put a quid on Mr. Barrow and swore Jimmy to secrecy. All of the maids bet on Mr. Carson, except for one because she thought Mr. Barrow too handsome to lose.

Word traveled upstairs and Jimmy saw the family betting amongst themselves. That was a blessed relief. He wouldn't have been able to stand it if he lost and saw his hard earned money go back to his employer. Mr. Branson and Lady Mary bet on Mr. Barrow.

"Of course, I love Carson dearly, " Jimmy had heard Lady Mary say. "But Barrow's cunning. I just hope he doesn't cheat."

Lord Grantham bet on Mr. Carson and Lady Grantham followed against her better judgement. This alone made Jimmy all the more confident in his friend's odds of winning. He had heard too much about his Lordship's business sense. He did think it was funny that the people betting on Mr. Barrow seemed to have legitimate reasons why they thought he might better at chess, though no one had ever seen Mr. Carson play. Yet the people betting on Mr. Carson seemed to be doing so out of a sense of loyalty. Though, if he thought about it, he would have to admit that his own bet on Mr. Barrow was out based on a personal bias.

_But mainly to stick it to Mr. Carson_ , he told himself.

"Did you start all this?" Mr. Barrow asked him as he sat down at the table. The servants' hall was packed. It was standing room only. Even the hall boys had bet a a few pence between each other and they were crowded into the corner by the piano.

"Yeah," Jimmy said. He clapped Mr. Barrow on the shoulder, forgetting himself out of excitement. "And you'd better win or I'm out a quid."

Mr. Barrow did not look in the least bit concerned as he lit a cigarette and gazed down at the readied chess board. "Oh, I'll win."

Thomas would never admit it to anyone else, but a good part of his strategy rested on attitude alone. Carson blustered and uttered triumphant exclamations when he thought he was ahead. Thomas remained absolutely calm whether he was ahead or not; he simply sat, his eyes on the board or on Carson, as he smoked. He didn't say a word once, not the for the entirety of the game. Around him everyone was watching and whispering. But his only real distraction was Jimmy, who sat on his right, arms folded on the table, his eyes glue to the game or to Thomas or Carson as he nibbled on biscuits. Thomas pretended to ignore him. He rather lost his head and a knight to Mr. Carson just because Jimmy was sitting so close, but he gathered himself and pressed an offense. When he lost the knight, Mr. Carson hooted. Alfred cheered behind him. Thomas remained stoic, as if it had been his plan all along. It certainly _could_ have been.

The true moment of victory played out in his own mind when he saw his winning play before him, as easily as a soft throw in cricket. Thomas made one move with a bishop and allowed his cool exterior to crack. He smiled slyly.

_I have you now, you old bastard_ , Thomas thought.

He watched Carson as the realization sunk in. Behind him, he heard Bates say, "Damn."

Carson sighed deeply and spread his hands out. "Well?"

Thomas spoke his first words since the game had begun: "Check mate."

More than half of the room broke out into groans. The others cheered and applauded.

People clapped him on the back. They stood and Carson shook his hand.

"Well played, Mr. Barrow," Carson said. "Perhaps I ought to have known better."

"Hoooo yes!" Jimmy crowed, grinning from ear to ear. "I knew you'd shut him out!" He punched Thomas lightly in the shoulder.

"Is violence necessary?" Thomas said, but he laughed and his heart fluttered.

He was surprised to see how many had bet on him, and amused when he saw Mrs. Hughes fighting a private smile, even as she patted Mr. Carson's arm in sympathy.

"I suppose I ought to break the news to his Lordship," Mr. Carson said. "I was told he had ten pounds resting on my shoulders."

Jimmy whistled. "Another hit for the Downton estate, I suppose." He nudged Thomas and said conspiratorially, "Lady Rose'll be happy anyway. She said she had her eye on a jewel encrusted flask made special in Paris. And a matching cigarette holder. Can you imagine?"

The winnings were distributed. Thomas remained at the table, reveling in his victory even as the room emptied. Mrs. Patmore brought him a cup of tea and a piece of cake to thank him for the bottle of perfume his win was buying her, as she had never allowed herself to purchase it with her own wages. This was more than Thomas had ever wanted to know about Mrs. Patmore's spending habits, but he appreciated the pudding. Thomas took a bite of cake and nodded a hello when Jimmy finally reappeared and took a seat across from him. He dumped a pile of coins on the table.

"There's your share," Jimmy said.

Thomas swallowed and said, "My share? I didn't bet. I was busy when all that was goin' on."

"Oh... I know," Jimmy said. "But that's not fair, you're the winner. So I gave you half of mine. Well, I could've taken it out of the pot if I'd figured it out, but I didn't fancy the arithmetic. Most people bet on Mr. Carson, to be honest. We cleaned up."

"Thank you," Thomas said. He cut his cake in half. "Cake?"

"Yes, thanks." Jimmy ate his half with his fingers. It was red velvet and he hummed in delight.

"What are you going to do with your winnings?" Thomas said, just to have something to say.

Jimmy's tongue flicked out to sweep a bit of frosting from his bottom lip and he shrugged. "Oh, I'm thinkin' about traveling."

Thomas guffawed. "Are you? Where to? The Orient?"

"Ah, well, not India, that's for certain. They've got witches there, you know."

"They do now," Thomas agreed. He counted his own money out on the table. "Let's see. If you didn't cheat me, you've got about two and a half quid."

"Why that's enough to buy me own island," Jimmy said.

"What's that then? Jimmistan?"

"No. Well, it was called Jimmango, but it was taken over by Belgium. Now it's the Belgian Jimmango."

"Oh dear, hope there's not a war," Thomas said, with a pretend-grimace.

"There might be," Jimmy said sadly. "They're a fierce people, the Jimmangians. Oh. And I wouldn't cheat, by the way! How dare you say so."

Thomas only fixed him with a knowing look.

"Alright, well if I do, I'll let you in on it."

"Sounds fair."


End file.
